Yesterday evening's Accidental Frame, the latest in the series.
Must state pronto that the first tune on Pandora's Oldies/Bubblegum station, Looking through the Eyes of Love by Keith Partridge (David Cassidy, of course) is a real eye-opener.
This song, on their Mondrian-looking release, completely sucks.
I cannot recall playing this vinyl on my little powder blue-colored record player, and I must have at least 500 times. Maybe more.
The record collection, all the Partridge Family l.p.'s, and an Elton John, were kept in a drawer along with a bunch of 45's (they were not called 7-inches in those days) that were purchased at the Sample's record shop - 2 for $1.
Next band equally sucks, time for another Pandora station and voilà here 'tis, in a supersonic flash.

This Accidental Image was made walking back to car parked near the doomed-to-wrecking-ball Aud after a Roswell benefit. And all Middling City denizens know a Roswell bennie is for the cancer institute, not for Area 51 in NM.
Saw a splendid array of people, including Kimmie & Tony who tell me they're coming up on Anniversary #9.
Kimmie and I, bien sur, had to regale ourselves with snippets from the evening of her bachelorette party, that Yours Truly planned.
I made her wear a wreath of flowers, org'd a bunch of ladies to meet at Thursday at the Square, acquired a huge amount of drink tix (which were put to use), had dinner at the defunct joint below the Tralf that was once Harlan's, and then onwards to Chippewa Street, as is mandatory for all bachelorettes within Middling City limits.
I had a somewhat-hired driver of sorts (read: The Ex) and wouldn't allow Kimmie to go home when we noted that Tony wasn't yet home. So off we went to another joint nearby, a place we'd never have gone in other circumstances.

As I walked along the SS Little Rock's deck (where the RPCI event happened) I said to another that it'd be great to yell down to pedestrians enjoying the park below AHOY MATEY for when does one ever have this utter op.

Made some nice dusky images of that portion of the waterfront.

Found this neatly-painted little torpedo on the deck.
Found the mechanical scent of the boats was nausea-inducing, the identical scent of amusement parks as one meanders for the next thrill.
Engine fumes + greased parts + warm air = green face of YT.

Love of all shades of green.

Molly Jarboe, from her lovely opening at Hart Gallery last Friday, an equally balmy Middling City evening.

Had a light sup with Brucy and Laura at Fiddleheads, where the three of us had not been to in ages, before skipping across Allen to Molly's art gathering.
Molly's work is black & white and lives in the realm of dreams, imaginings, and remembrances. It feels personal, but also universal.
Here is an image of Molly and BobB, who Yours Truly has known for eons and whom YT also worked with at AV.

BobB was on photodoc duty for Molly, snapping away making crowdshots.
Here is an image YT had Bob make of YT, Molly et al, we are (l. to r.):


Lisa, Joelle, Girl of the Hour, Laura, YT.

Today made some ports out in OP and of course had to get lost. This time due to a curious detour for the road that I needed. I did find the destination after a quick u-turn and after passing some horses made the ports.
Hired to board the SS Little Rock shortly to document the soirée hosted by Roswell Park Cancer Institute. Time to reapply the SPF3000.

And, finally, Nance's Helpful Hint #33:
When driving along life's highways avoid getting too near the following vehicles to avoid bad surprises: Cadillacs, Buick sedans, minivans, and pedestrians pulling smallish RVs upon which are no side mirrors. YT was nearly hit today by 2 of the above 4 on today's several highway jaunts.

No, now finally.
Was quite surprised to hear that a young person, namely YT's nephew, prefers the likes of McCain to Obama. His opinion is based upon the idea of experience, or lack thereof. His auntie could not have disagreed more. Thank goodness he cannot put his op into action for a few years. YT would have worked a bit harder to change his 16-year old mind.

Taking part in Shoot the Day on Sunday. Planning on non-planning, drifting Zenlike form place to place ... before and after a gig. This is a worldwide photogfest and all the images will be uploaded to a site. Details to follow for sure.

For sure Love, Love is a sure sure bet.

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way blasted from my answering machine, sung by Rio, Ron, Ace, and Lily after they received Nance's Christmas in July package of fun items. And sponge candy for Rio.
Originating from the Middling City, she has a deep love of sponge candy whereas her children, born down south, find it abhorrent.
This non-sponge candy devotion is curious to those raised on it.
Hiked vertically into Devil's Hole, or, rather, down into Niagara County's gorge to look across at Devil's Hole, yesterday with Kennedy.
We fun and outdoorsy committee members who voted, discussed, and debated about the bests in and around the MC came up with Devil's Hole for best daytrip/hike.
We emphasized in our discussion that one could perish doing so.
The rocks can be quite mossy and slippery and there are a few moments where one is leaning towards the wall of the gorge to avoid falling down into what's left of the hike.
We hiked along the coast as those silly boats zoomed continuously up the rapids to give ticketholders a thrill. Backwards on the bow is a worker, speaking to the crowd about the dangers they are coming face to face with as the boat's youthful captain either stalls out the engine to let the boat drift a ways sideways, or to crash into waves for full, splashing effect.
You walk along the coast from the vertical ending to the whirlpool which is more impressively viewed from above.
Kennedy and I hired a limo a few winters ago to take some musicians to the Falls and to the whirlpool (along with a stop at the gorgeside resto in Lewiston that is not The Silo) and that view was quite spectacular, it slowly churning counter clockwise - a phenom.

Yeterday, amongst other things, photographed h.s. girls taking virtual reality rollercoaster rides. Yours Truly stood behind on a stepstool and became quite woozy as I photographed four sets of girls and was watching the action through the lens.
Woozy I tell You.
My lifelong ride-centric wooziness not dispelled by lens, years, or virtual reality.

The Book plods along. And its images made by YT.
Have been making images here, there, everywhere.

On Sunday YT participates in Shoot the Day, a worldwide photo event with photogs making images for a day wherever they happen to be. All these images will be posted onto PhotoSheleter's site. This is all inspired, obviously, by the Life project of yore.

Speaking of pop mags, Time's story about Steve Kurtz was fairly unimpressive and the photo was just terrible. They used a grabby title about Big Bro eating 'za at one's pad and the photo, it seems, was meant to look as sensationalistic as the words meant to be.
Sent off my own take on the Kurtz story (a much-needed look at him as Artist, and what his artwork is actually about) to the Shiney Happy.

Parties and trips on the soon horizon.

Vertical, horizontal Love.

Just wrote back to PB who tells me he's off the road after several months touring - even to Brasil, he writes.
Now he's back in his art studio and, undoubtedly, getting antsy for the road again from his h.q. in Germany.
He called me schatz and I had to Google that, not sure if that meant cat, shit, or what. It's dear. Nice.
Today in NYT is a nice Q&A with Patti Smith.
Can You imagine the following Q being lobbed to Patti:
You seem to cultivate a kind of wild-child mystique, even in your appearance. For instance, why don’t you use hair conditioner?
Patti's reply:
I do use conditioner!
The impudence. I mean really, to ask Patti such an inane question.
Looking forward to the biopic about her forthcoming.
Nice rainy Middling City day, nice and green and the bennie planned by Yours Truly et al (Solid Gold Bookers) - Paws for Charlie - is rain or shine.
And what MC denizen can't handle a little rain after the winters weathered.
Philly Pal emailed me after receiving my press releasing email number two to inquire if Charlie is a boy or dog. Did Charlie need a dog, or did the dog dig too much and need paw replacement surgery I think he was asking. Good question and for the record Charlie is a boy. A human boy.
Today we're up against another dog-related benefit, and the MC's annual Taste Of event downtown. The latter is a surprisingly expensive event teeming with people meandering whilst balancing tiny paper plates of food.
Wonder if they have those chianti slushies. A photog pal turned me onto the joys of the chianti slushie, a bevvie obviously to be consumed only at a large-scale event such as this.

This past Thursday was an interesting confluence of activity, culminating in a disastrous dinner at a new dinner joint with pretension co-owned by a longtime acquaintance, and a late-night, after-hours haircut.
Perhaps it was the overpriced and sour dining experience that YT was into the idea of a cut by a champagne-sipping stylist just off work, hunkered down at the same Italian marble bar. Heady and I paid up, left with our half glasses of vino and headed next door to the salon.
Will try the restaurant again some time but they've been open for over a month, those awkward kinks should be long smoothed-out by now.
In a nutshell: salad with minimalistic toppings, cold pork roulade, followed by scorched and cold foie gras that smelled of eau de wet dog.

Onwards.

Last night attended Cynnie's b-day party at Blair et Monique's and arrived with gift despite a directive to do otherwise. A bottle of Lillet, a fav of Laura. Thought Cynnie might enjoy this, she'd never had it before.
At Frontier Liquor on ever-struggling Grant Street where you can always spot a crackhead or two staring ferally at passersby, discovered that 50% of their windows had been boarded up.
Inside was the usual display maze.
At checkout asked the people working what had happened.
A guy fell asleep at the wheel and arced his car into the windows, taking out $11K's worth of bottles. The man, panicked, left his beau asleep in the vehicle and fled. The police arrived as Frontier's alarms were sounding and awakened the man.
Now Frontier has to redesign their facade as their orange-red bricks are three decades old and obsolete.

Onwards again and over and out for now.

Red-orange Love.

Working, of freakin' course, on The Book and yesterday found images alongside Niagara River on the tip of Grand Island, where Israel might have been located.
The above image shows an inlet of marshlike proportions, where egrets, cranes, heron hang out on rocks and wade up to their knees in muck.
Off on the hazy horizon the Middling City is visible.
Yeterday's final gig was of a singing troupe of note.
Like the singers who appeared on the Lawrence Welk show, they wear matching attire.
The troupe's collective sense of humour was quite hilarious.
We had a photo shoot in a rather humid auditorium of a regional small private college and by the end Yours Truly was ready for a gallon of water.
One of the troupe's male members attempted to - or rather, did - tell an off-colour joke to the chagrin of every single person in the room.
He forged on towards the punchline, and it involved an ethnic group, a sex toy, and chipped teeth.
The entire front row groaned as he began this horrid joke, assuredly they had been treated to his jokiness before.
Today made ports of an anesthesiologist, and one of my set-ups was with a machine used in the 40s. Four valves, color-coded: helium, nitrous oxide, and I forget the others.
This did not assuage my fear of being put to sleep - in the human, not canine, sense.
Onwards to Jamie Lembeck's memorial service, Canada, and points above, below, and beyond.

Never ever beyond Love.

During yesterday's second gig, a political portrait making session in the midst of the Middling City's Japanese Gardens tucked behind the Historical Society and alongside the lake that was troublingly chartreuse, spotted these clover nestled up in a tree.
Nature, ever full of surprises.

Heard from KennethJ last night, who is still living in Amsterdam, NL after eight years. He, he tells me, is now a father. No word if he's still making art and music - yet.
I do still enjoy the piece I purchased from him, part of my arm/hand collection.
Not to be confused with my tree collection.

Readying for the Hallwalls members's show, always a fun exhib to be part of, it a mishmash of pieces straddling the theme.
This year's theme is an anagram of Barack Obama's name - Karma Cab Boa.
I tried to make another, better anagram of his name to no result.
Not sure if I'll be doing drawing or pixelpushing for this, maybe former.

Time to push onwards editing the ports made yesterday of a politico who I greatly enjoy talking to, a challenger.

Pushing Pixels, Love.

Last night's surprise fete was a treat, the 30th of Robert, thrown by Steve.
Arrived with bottle of champ (bien sur) in bejeweled gift bag and helped three others get things shaped into a party as we debagged 30 candles, cups, plates, balloons, mardi gras-style necklace for Robert, and more.
Following Steve's written instructions, hidden in his apartment, constructed the punch: 1 bottle of Sierra Mist (that kiddie bevvie that Yours Truly had never tried, in part due to its horrific name), some cranberry juice, some orange juice.
So I stepped back and looked at it, a strange orange-pink, bubbling.
I asked the other pre-party helpers if there was any booze. We searched the cabinets and finally found a bottle of good vodka. I dumped maybe a third of it into the punch asking Moriah Did Steve intend this punch to be non-alcoholic.
When a couple arrived I basically insisted that they try the punch.
In part to see if they got a wanging punch of vodka.
They did not.
YT added more vodka.
We hid in the kitchen.
Robert noted that some chairs had been moved and asked upon entering with Steve Hey what's going on, those chairs weren't there.
But he was surprised.
Really, really surprised.
I told Robert his Retaliation Party could happen in March, for Steve's b-day.
When I arrived at the apartment saw Roy & Sionen, Norman & Steve as the latter also live in the same building.
Ahh, the joys of life in the intertwined/interwined Middling City community.
Time to hit a front porch for a coffee gathering before the day's gigs.

Interwined Love.

+ this just in.
Merci beaucoup to NYT for writing up CocoRosie.
Create a Pandora station for same and You will be sans distress, swimming in a curious folkie galloping pool of musings.

Ta rah rah boom tee ay.
Sped off to Baird Point at the BigU's suburban campus to make some spectacular fireworks images last night, after Marty & Susan's exurban barbecue where, amongst others, spotted Bad Ronald, sundry musicians, a few dogs, an oenophile, a plowed field, children fascinated by firecrackers, serious fireworks exploding over a stand of trees beyond the field, and general revelry.
The BigU's spectacle, really that of the town of Amherst, draws thousands of watchers.
Annie and I saw a crescent of the various displays alongside the mighty Niagara and on various golf courses. The Indian's casino, ever cashing in on collective interests, allegedly blew off some f-works on their sovereign land alongside the cataracts, celebrating the development of the country that would go on to marginalize their entire culture, leading to the backlash of casinos and tax-free gas and cigs.
The Amherst spectacularity was wonderful and was only sullied by a curious mix of music that was booming from one point near the lake, deafening about 30% of the watchers.
Stepped over blanketeers to get various angles and this image is one of about a dozen of superkeepers.
Kennedy referred to this and a few others as being my Maxfield Parrish images.
I concurred, and here is an exemplary image for Your perusal and edification.

Compare, contrast, write a limerick or haiku in honour of both of these epinw images du jour.
Your post-holiday wrap-up homework assignment.
Oh, ate the year's first hotdog yesterday at M&S's, sans bun, of course.

Contrasting Love.

Nance's Rippin' Believe This or Not.
Outside, some ultra-locals are imbibing the day away.
Yours Truly spotted a couple of them hobbling back to their lair with a suitcase (as it's politely called up north of the Middling City) of Buds.
Now, they're way into their cups.
There is the crackling of a grill, the meager shade of a backyard vinyl umbrella.
YT just went outside to feed the cats, being the Official Old First Ward Cat Lady and all.
Now, here comes the Believe This or Not portion of this Perfect Indy-Day tale.
Loudly, the ultras are regaling each other with tales accidental, as in I was there and then suddenly a crash/boom/bang and then I was ... oneupmanship always happens in these circumspect circumstances, as We all know in this fair, Democratic and dwindling Superstar Power.
One of the ultras kept subbing the word hemorrhoid for hemorrhage, sans ironical lilt of any sort.
YT will, as Perfect luck has it, be in the Shiney Apple during Restaurant Week, that prix fixe fest for lunch or din.

Onwards to more present matters.

Jesse Helm is deceased, a hateful art hater and it's an interesting intellectual or, more precisely, metaphysical argument to bandy about just where he might be at this moment. If one believes in the afterlife. With all that negativity is he metaphysically south.
YT is about to launch a little slip of paper over to the ultras, with this hate/Helms talkpoint written upon it.

As indy-day motors on YT listens to one of her newbiefinds, Band of Horses, a delightful NWn indie band.

This image was spotted on in internet system today, paired with a story of the sale of Getty Images to a private investment group for over a bill.


Last night Jakob Dylan had his special aura, as did one of his bandmates, that roadblush upon them that makes the heart patter a bit and yearn for something ... bigger.
His gig was good, despite the people about who did not give a hoot (don't pollute) about the Dylan onstage, nor his bandmates - the ol' Gold Mountain Band, is that it.
I said to Annie that the show would have been oso much better in a small dark venue with a cool refreshing bevvie in hand.

Time to wend out to a weenie roast south of here and then f-works way north of here, for The Book. Ahh, The Book.

Bookish, Lovish Love.

It is Independence Day's Eve.
And bottle rockets have been blasting off in the Middling City's Historic Old First Ward for weeks.
And then there is the occasional explosion that sounds like perhaps a car has been bombed, or a building collapsed.
Happy to hear/see that the Livery on Jersey Street will be shelled and saved by Savarino. Now there's a potential headline for the MC News. Your Truly should probably proffer up her excellently Perfect alliteration.
Hoping to gather spectacular images of the BigU-sited f-works tomorrow night for The Big Book.
Time to fly off to map out the gallery where the Paws for Charlie bennie takes place on July 13th, a Sunday.
To make sure that the foodstuffs, the YT-created craft project, that the auction item tables, and La Marimba do not collide.
Afterwards, a fine all-girlie dindin extravaganza and then TATS for Dylan's kid's band. Have seen and photographed The Wallflowers a few times. They were harmless enough.
Read: dullsville.
But, as Mish says, that Jakob is easy on the eyes.
Plus open-air musique is oso jubilant.

Open, airy Love.

A True Confession.
To be filed under B, for Baking.
Yours Truly, avid this & that, including cook, cannot bake (usually) to save her Perfect self.
Well, certain things can be mustered/baked. And have been good.
But things involving yeast, doughs, seem to be a challenge to my terminally-degreed, photog, Type A, organized self.
Last night, for example, told Kennedy I'd try a new pizza dough (keyword: dough) and used some rice flour. And followed directions, for we all know that baking is just a thesaurus toss away from chemistry - as in the confusing world of chem class.
So, there was YT last night, following the Shiney Happy Mag Best Of meet-up at Hallwalls, whipping up a little dough (yeast product) for some gourmet pizza.
Or so YT thought.
No rising took place.
YT re-read the recipe via Epicurious.
Yup, 1 t salt, 2 c four, splash of this, and dash of whatever else.
Like I said, no rising.
Finally, just spread the play-doughish matter around the official peel and topped with primo ingredients and then jerked it, true gourmet style, atop the nicely-heated pizza stone.
Several moments later.
Lovely ingredients atop a sort of baked cookie dough yeasty crust.
No, there is one pizza dough recipe that YT has seemingly mastered - with olive oil, really like a nice focaccia dough.
Now YT wishes that she'd paid more attention to Pahts all those years ago whilst he was mastering all types of bread bakings.

Live and bakingly learn.

Yeasting, feasting Love.

Nature, Nature, Nature.
Here is some Nature in the center of the Middling City, in the winding-roaded Forest Lawn Cemetery, where Yours Truly learned to drive with Margie Maloney calmly (really) on the passenger side of things.
And where Yours Truly, during her salad days, would scout out lovely fresh flowers from a dumping area hidden near a hillock.
There is a photo of YT made during an Oscar Wilde in the 80s, to which YT brought in armloads of fresh flowers gleaned from FL.

In these FL images there are geese and ducks lolling around Mirror Lake.
Images were also made of a green heron resting on a nearby limb.
Someone yesterday told me that there are more heron sightings than usual, that they have moved more inland.
There was also a report of a heron dipping down to eat a coy out of a small backyard pond.
Now that takes not only aerial cojones, but deft imagining.

Deft, daring Love, Love.

To be doubly filed under Y.
For Yuck, and Yikes.
Made happy, memorial, and rolling images at this year's Ride for Roswell, as is the wont of Yours Truly.
Beginnings and ends, and the light rains rolled in twice.
After nearly every rider had crossed the Big Finish, went to the tent of a private client, not the BigU, which hosts R4R.
Walking with riding team to our designated team portrait site felt an arm gripping my upper arm, a gesture that instantly annoys, of course.
Turning, discovered the gripper was one of the Middling City (and its attendant suburbs) lead advertorial attorneys of a certain genre.
He informed me that he is still available for s.e.x.
This character has made such other strange verbal utterances to YT in the past.
YT believes it is just a matter of time before said attorney ends up in hot water for some such harassment elsewhere.
In the case of YT, a clipping email is probably in order. On second thought, this person should not have email access, so a printed note (sans return address, bien sur) is best.

Onwards.

Arose early this fine morn to deploy out into the world to make some more images of the BigU for the Big Book that is pending. And, hopefully, teeming with images that are inspiring.
One image this fine morn was one involving a heron hanging onto a branch, discreetly centermost of the frame that also included some water, some grass, some mysterious MC clouds.

Cloudy, rainy Love.

As Yours Truly (mais bien sur, still minding her very own beeswax after all this time, time squeezed of every last possibility like yesterday's lemon) firmly believes that all musical discs (as opposed to imagistic) should be judged by their Track 7's, she will zoom ahead to Coldplay's verysame, a tune entitled Viva La Vida.
Let us whirl it via iTunes.
Sounds a wee bit syncopatey, MOOGish, ahh, now the soothing voice of Chris.
Focusing now on strings, his lyrics.
Roll the dice, enemy eyes. O dear.
Held the key ... (YT is awful at picking up lyrics, a trait that has created much humour these many several years)
...
Noticed were what I wanted ... synthesized and multi-layered music.
Wicked and wild wind ... shadowed windows and sound of drums.
Alrighty, this will remain background musique for now to get to more important matters at hand.
Namely, the Big9/ToppermostsJudicious/Supremes voted 5-4 that our second amendment is to remain as is.
NYT featured an image of a protester holding this sentiment markered:
IF GUNS KILL PEOPLE DO PENS MISSPELL WORDS.
YT always appreciates a good slogan.

Sent in my moola to acquire a fine, limited-ed Obama superstar t.
They did not have a girl-cut t, and that is a demerit, in my Perfect and humble op.
OK, this Coldplay disc is really not wooing, yet.
Kennedy is quite happy to hear that Buckethead (GNR guitar god) is coming to the Middling City, to Club Infinity, where the prized Nephew has performed, where Freeland worked his dreamy rock wonders, where several others were captured by YT.
Tomorrow night hired to doc an onstage assemblage of rockstars during the downtown hoopla part of Homecoming Weekend.
We who have stayed in the MC already know its divergent and ragamuffin charms, but do enjoy basking in the affirmative attention of others from time to time.
All this as a new kitten rambles about outside the office door, the Natives build their large-scale gambling den in the midst of what should be a heritage district (assuredly leading to some struggling hardtimes for the remaining gin mills of yore who will be caught in this monstrosity's long, concrete shadow), and the storm clouds hover still.

Viva Luvva.

In quite possibly one of the worst headlines penned lately, Yours Truly just read on the epicurious site: Healthy Addictions: Granola Is the New Crack.
I will have to remember to tell that to the crack ho I saw staggering down the parking lane of Elmwood Avenue this past Saturday night as Annie and I decided to make our way north after not in fact seeing the swishy party that YT was not only invited to - but RSVP'd as an enthusiastic Oui to.
In my little FaceBook What'reYouUpTo YT mentioned that I wondered how long it'd take for me to become fluent in Japanese.
Whilst in Japan the first time YT did make a grand effort to learn some phraseology, some katakana, some hiragana, and could even write out first and last name - in katakana, a sound alphabet for mod/western words.
A handy thing when dropping off and picking up photo orders from the neighborhood photo lab.
So, Larry Deluxe read that YT wished to become fluent in Japanese and sent YT a handy list of phrases most moderne.
Mainly things relating to bodily, or gutteral matters.
In reply, YT sent him a YouTubed Domo Arigato Mister Roboto.
Really and truly a masterwork, when you consider it from a substantial, safe distance from the 80s that spawned it.
YT now wonders how we can get this number into the Solid Gold Bookers Rock Opera that we are considering writing/producing/performing at this year's Middling City Infringement Fest.
Our performative plate is oso full, but there is always room for a nice rendition of a Styx classic.

You're wondering who I am-machine or mannequin
With parts made in Japan, I am the modren man

Now, YT asks You. Is this not poetry.

Poetic, Modren Love.

The Middling City's eldest sycamore tree on Franklin near Virginia Street is ailing and maybe about to succumb to a fungus.
Yours Truly has made a few images of this tree over the years and owns a painting of the tree, purchased at one of the Paint the Town benefits for Buffalo and Erie County Historical Society years ago.
This was front-page MCNews news, as was a story about a femme who nearly perished after choking on a piece of kielbasa. I have to think that the reporter somehow relished this very MC fact. Not food, not a morsel of food, not a sandwich or sausage, but a kielbasa.
O so MC.
Thee eldest of all trees is in Delaware Park, a white oak, according to the same story. And I do believe it is the very tree where YT poses hundreds of bigU runners and walkers who are participating in Corporate Challenge.
Am I sincerely upset about the state of the second-oldest MC tree, You ask.
You bet your toppermost branches I am.

So, last night, amongst other activities, picked up Annie to bring her to a solstice fete on the west side, near the fabled Elmwood Village.
We were all gussied up and motored by. I thought things looked rather tame so we parked and then walked up to the property. Nothing. No swingin' high times.
Something, YT speculates, must have gone awry and things did not happen at all.
Looked at invite again, confirmed that we were in the correct city, on correct street, at appointed hour - to no party avail.
So off we continued to eat some fab Indian food and catch a little less than half of the gratis Sloan gig alongside the canal, at Gateway Park.
Soundman Mark let us stand under one of his protective tents and then Gary and Mish found us. Some high kicks, some shouts, some furious applause, some lightning, some torrential raindrops, some ending.
One encore song and then Sloan hit the highway; they were actually getting wet on the stage and YT did wonder if the band would be meeting a sparking, sputtering, electrical end. They did not.
This was the third time that I have seen Sloan with this trio of people. One time, one of the favs, had Nephew in tow.
That was also outdoors, at Thursday at the Square.

Square, electrical, tree Love.

Thought it was high time to share a recent favoured image, gleaned from an online image bank. I like how glowingly Obama appears alongside Kennedy. And this is, obviously, weeks before it was discovered that he has a brain tumor.
This was when the stumping gloves were on and both Obama and Clinton suspected they were the chosen nominee.
Technically, there could be a change in nominee. Until all delegates have pledged their support, and votes are tallied, there could be an unlikely change.
Hi refusal of public money for his campaign is honorable and the R's should also pledge to spare the public the financing of presidential campaigns. Obama has shown the power of online fundraising. And blah blah, an R pal said Oh, here he goes, showing his true colours already, changing his position and going against his (campaign financing) word. I wholeheartedly disagree.

Speaking of the high-flying world of finance, all is coming together for the benefit that I'm helping to coordinate - Paws for Charlie. I named the event, and You know what a fan I am of the homonym. So there You have it - Paws/Pause. Dig.
The event is 7.13.08 and money will be gathered together to purchase a companion dog for Charlie, a three-year old with autism, and will go toward funding programming for Buffalo Companion Animal Network.

Just ran to CEPA to finally pick up my Josh Marks piece. Unwrapped it and had forgotten what it looks like, how large it is. It will have to be shoehorned into the collection somehow. Back to the home office hovel spotted a resident of the Middling City's historic Old First Ward in a nearly-vintage NYNEX Premium Goods t-shirt, giveaways years ago. And, whilst marveling, thought There is no other MC neighborhood that has residents in these PG shirts. Recently, I spotted another resident in same. And I'm sure that these two separate individuals and PG shirt wearers are not sharing closet space.

Onwards.

Premium, Good Love.

Whilst wending this fine day bumped (visually) into Sue of ShoeFly fame, who handed me a flyer for her first-ever Stiletto Run. A .5K Stiletto Run to benefit Ovarian Cancer research this Saturday.
Yours Truly would just enjoy and love to engage in a Stiletto Run from Bidwell Parkway and Elmwood to the confines of ShoeFly but YT is ultra-overscheduled for that verysame day.
Here is a link to take you to Sue's Stiletto Run site.
The charity du jour - or, in actuality du mois - and members of SolidGoldBookers is Paws for Charlie.
YT designed the fetching logo and made the blog for the bennie.
Read it, love it, attend it.
How is that for primo adspeak.
Today I made the executive decision to use my old standby, VistaPrint, to create some nearly-free tix for P4C. 500 tix for approximately $16 - You can't beat that with a stick.
Someone a long time ago turned me on to VistaPrint so I do the same at twists and turns when I hear that someone needs something to promote themselves.
Today's Middling City News lead off with (yes, a sobering photo of the casket of Tim Russert) a sordid tale of yet another teacher who's jumped off the Sanity Wagon and is in - or was in - hottest pursuit of a teen. In this case it's a femme forgetting hubby and kids to lust after high school boy. Perhaps, like Diana, hunting for that X Factor of her own teen desire.
Found yet another kitten, but this one is a very new vintage.
Black and white.
Some motor oil on right side of his body.
Fed him, of course.
Named him, of course.
Heady gave me a cat carrier so I can trap the little newbie and bring him to City Creatures for some medical attention, adjustments, and removal of oil.
His name, You ask.
Castro, of course.

Feline, synonymic Love.

Moments ago, minding my own freelancer's business, received a nice email from Al. Al, apparently, is really not running. For president, or for health's sake.
Al is giving the big thumb's up to Obama.
YT, thrilled, gave a little bit more moola to the Obama campaign, despite the fact that I did not get the go-ahead to dine with Obama a few months back.
As I told CatherineP at our teadate this fine a.m., I should have been more failing-rust-bucket-town-edgy.
Today, about 1 p.m., Yours Truly witnessed a classic End of the World Sky with dark gray clouds to the north.
YT contacted her northerly contacts to learn if they'd been barraged by storms, hailballs, furballs, or a blizzard.
Amherst Contact wrote back that she had to park under an overpass to avoid golf balls falling from the sky, that the leaves out there were snapped off of trees.
That cars have divots.
The Middling City avoided this weather drama.
YT in a few hours will be hitting the stage of Irish Classical Theatre Company to read a portion of Ulysses as it is once again BloomsDay.
James Joyce, like Samuel Beckett, denounced the constrictions of Ireland and headed to more Liberal Lands.
The Middling City Mayor is calling for a Turn Your Back on the Pump Day to ... stick it to the man. To stick it to the conglomerates. To stick it to the local businessowner already hanging on by an overtaxed thread.

Still, Al, Love.

Very sad to hear that this afternoon Middling City native Tim Russert collapsed at his gig and passed away.
Was trolling through my mental archive to recall what images I made of him and they're coming in a bit more vividly - a wildly crowded reception for him when he was a Distinguished Speaker at the BigU.
Affable, flushed, lots of guffaws and slaps on the back, and stopped to sign every item that fans wanted autographed. Much like equally-affable, equally-shaped Michael Moore when he was at the BigU for his own Distinguished Speaker trip.
Watched the Steve Kurtz big screen release Strange Culture after yet another marathon day that included freelance gigs, a wake, a memorial service, a stop at a coffee joint mid-afternoon, the munching of an excellent maple cookie from Quaker Bonnet, and oso much more.
Before film watching dined at DiGiulio's and saw both Sandy and Deanna from the elementary days.
Pre-DiGiulio's motored out to Botanicus Gardenus to see their wonderful new exhibits in honour of The Everglades, and The Rainforest. More orchids at the viewing venue, more bromeliads, more big palms, more statuesque grasses. Just lovely. Afterwards, a brief look at the works of Roland Wise, another person no longer in this sphere photographed by YT at several arts events. He studied at Art Students League, where Brucey also gleaned some fun facts about making & doing.
Yours Truly began today with laptop working and then documentation of the high school graduation at the private school on the rolling and perfectly picturesque parcel.
After that ran for some healthbev and ran into Victor (also from elementary days) in Snyder - as I told him, I do not seem to ever go to Snyder and its juicebar without seeing Victor.
What is trad about high school graduations? Nearly same for the next level of graduating.
Apprehension, cockiness, flowers, parents and other relatives who are somewhat displaced. Some live music, school songs, incantations for all good wishes.
Today, as the headmaster sent out a love-packed adieu to the grads-in-making a large branch snapped off of a nearby tree with a huge crack.
Nature was adding itself to the program.

Nature, ever on the program, like it or not, notice it or not.
Today, I stopped to look at a departed bumble bee, fat, on its side.

Bombus Fervidus Love.